A Walk in the Park
by Alpha Flyer
Summary: Clint Barton has complaints, and a job to do; Maria Hill has a ringside seat.


A/N: In the course of a lovely game of fandom tennis, Tielan asked "_Maria Hill and Clint Barton meet up in a city that you've worked in. Why are they there, what are they doing, and is karaoke really on the menu tonight?_" This is an elaboration of my response. And thanks to Maria's musings and the photos (on AO3 only, alas), it totally checks the "road trip" square on my trope bingo card.

In case you're wondering about timelines, this would be sometime before _Avengers_. I own nothing but the words herein.

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><p><strong>A Walk in the Park<strong>

**By Alpha Flyer**

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><p>"Any way we can speed this up and get back to civilization? I hate Tashkent. And the <em>last<em> thing I need is be around that food."

Maria suppresses a sigh. If she's heard about Barton's issues with Central Asian cuisine once tonight, she's heard it a hundred times. Still, he keeps sniffing the smells emanating from those steaming vats full of _plov, _vegetables and lamb, looking for all the world like a kid who's been left out of Christmas.

The food _does_ smell good, notwithstanding its many lethal qualities, which range from excessive quantities of lard and assorted parasites, to full-blown Hepatitis B. (They've been living on flat bread and power bars for two days.)

"Just pretend you've already eaten, Barton. You're supposed to be a sniper. Try and muster some discipline."

Barton, unmoved, inhales deeply.

"Did I ever tell you what happened the last time I ate..."

"Yes, you did. Shut up and look like a tourist."

"Tourists, if they have any sense at all, are scared _shitless_ of the food here."

She rolls her eyes. Barton, it is obvious, is not impressed with Broadway, the ambitiously named central promenade in Amir Timur park. Maria can see his point, but would like to think that her approach to the place is a bit more nuanced.

The place is brightly, if not garishly, lit, illuminating small stands where scarves in jewel-toned silk flutter in the light breeze and areas where painters sell their works at a fraction of what they might fetch in New York. Loud music fills the evening air, running the gamut from merely objectionable to downright obnoxious (okay, point to Barton).

Right in the center of the park, the bronze sculpture of the Tamerlane the Great, the eponymous Amir Timur, glares disapprovingly at his descendants having way too much fun. The grandson of Jengiz Khan, he happily built the soaring, blue-tiled madrassas of Samarqand, Bukhara and Khiva on the broken backs of his people. (What is it about beauty and terror that they lie so easily together?)

Barton follows her gaze.

"I suppose when you run a police state, you get to name your parks after guys who should have been locked up for crimes against humanity, huh?"

She gives him a sideways glance. According to Romanoff, he makes a point of reading up on every place they go to, even if it's just a Lonely Planet guidebook. Making up for lost school years, or just drowning out the noise of what he does for a living?

Maria is loath to admit it, but his observations have, for the most part, been spot on and surprisingly entertaining, if decidedly opinionated. (_"Did you know they had an earthquake here in the Sixties? Flattened most of the city. And just their luck, the Soviets were in charge of urban planning. No wonder it sucks worse than New Jersey.") _

She gives a non-committal grunt by way of reply, and stops to look at a stall on the side of the road, where an artist somewhat more polished than most is displaying his wares. Could she…? Probably not. Loading a painting onto the Quinjet would no doubt net her a series of smartass remarks.

One piece in particular grabs her attention. The _Icarus of Khiva__, the label says_ - wings like a raptor angel, hovering over the ancient city, its madrassas and turrets. Flying by night, to avoid getting burned.

"Hey, Hill."

Barton's voice has changed, his tone suddenly sharp and professional. Maria, in turn, is instantly on alert.

"Isn't that our mark?"

They don't call Barton _Hawkeye_ for nothing. There he is, Jamshid Asyltanov, Head of the Uzbek security service, in the obscenely well-nourished flesh; torturer-in-chief of one of the most brutal regimes on the planet. But what's _really_ of interest to SHIELD is his lucrative sideline in arms smuggling across the Termez bridge.

Asyltanov's activities have led to a resurgence of the Taliban in Northern Afghanistan, courtesy of his dealings with the very same extremists his goons are using as their excuse for systemic repression and rampant abuse. Playing both sides with equal gusto, leaving bodies in his wake as his bank account grows on a par with his political influence.

Maria's assignment, already complete, had been to explain to the Uzbek president that S.H.I.E.L.D. expects him to keep his minions in line; Barton's is to drive the point home in a language the regime will understand. _Diplomacy_, a wise person once said, _is the art of saying 'nice doggy!' until you can find a rock._

Of course, the Council had made it clear that as long as the Uzbek authorities ostensibly cooperate in the fight against terrorism, asking them to refrain from torturing their citizens isn't really on the menu_._

"We're not Human Rights Watch," Pierce had snarled when she'd asked the question. (Sometimes, Maria has serious reservations about her job.)

But right here, right now, there is something they _can_ do, besides making a political point - even if that something amounts to a drop of water on a sizzling hot rock.

She does a quick ID confirmation with the facial recognition app on her smartphone.

"Yep, that's him alright."

"Now a good time to finish the job? Then we can blow this pop stand and go home early."

The _I-can't-stand-it-here _undertone notwithstanding, Barton sounds and looks primed, like a predator who's gotten a whiff of abandoned fawn. Maria knows this should squick her more than it does, but there is something – fine, might as well admit it - _downright __sensual_ in the way his body language has morphed from insolent slouch into sleek, lethal grace. And it's catching.

"As good a time as any," she shrugs, careful not to analyze too closely just how eager she is to see this man come to an end – and, if she's honest with herself, how satisfying it is to be the one to unleash his killer.

The white tent Asyltanov is headed towards is the immediate source of caterwauling noise, several decibel levels above human endurance. One of those karaoke operations the good people of Tashkent seem so disproportionally fond of.

Asyltanov and his posse part the crowd like water as they enter. Ordinary Uzbeks, it seems, have an antenna for the presence of their security services and make their choices accordingly - the daily calculus of oppression. A dozen or so melt into the shadows where the lights don't reach, then merge with the crowds on Broadway to find other pleasures in the summer's night. Those who elect to stay, do their best to amp up the cheerfulness.

The deference shown to him must have put Asyltanov into a jovial mood. Encouraged by his sycophants, he heads straight for the microphone (no queuing for the entitled) and gives an imperious order to the guy operating the karaoke machine.

Barton dives silently into what remains of the audience. He obviously hadn't been prepared to carry out the hit tonight, and Maria is curious how he'll handle it. _Assassin improv at a karaoke bar? _She mentally gives herself a political correctness slap, but can't quite stop her tongue from briefly wetting her lower lip.

Moments later, Asyltanov starts belting out a heavily-accented - but surprisingly not half-bad - version of _Delilah_. Maybe he should have stuck to singing? He struts and sweats and even does the lewd pelvis thing, which would probably be a lot more effective without the hundred or so extra pounds he's carrying in front. There's much laughter, preening and applause, and his collapse during the last verse looks like a very well earned heart attack.

Barton sticks a pen into his pocket as he is sauntering back to her, amid urgent shouts for a doctor in Uzbek and Russian.

"Blowgun," he smirks in response to Maria's raised eyebrow. "Always respect the classics."

The audience starts to drain away; no one, it appears, wants to stick around a dead apparatchik. By tacit agreement they merge with it, not speaking again until they have reached a safe distance.

There's a sudden chill in the air, and Maria finds herself shivering a little. Barton hooks his arm into hers and steers her towards the artists' stalls.

"Always hated that song," he says with a shudder of his own. "But wasn't there a painting you liked?"


End file.
